


Just Another Dream

by flora_tyronelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, La La Land (2016)
Genre: And is directing, Dancing, F/M, Friendship, If there is such a thing?, James and Lily have the lead roles, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Minerva wrote it, Modern AU, Multiple Pov, Musicals AU, Remus is a composer, Remus is also a pianist, Singing, Sirius is a choreographer, Teddy is adorable, Tonks is amazing, Yes you did read those fandoms right, i'll add more tags as i go along, non magical au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flora_tyronelle/pseuds/flora_tyronelle
Summary: "Is this the start of something wonderful? Or just another dream I cannot make true?"-“One more question,” Sirius asks, as he gets to his feet, “Can you tell me who the composer is?”The Lady smiles for the first time.“I can. He signed his contract with us just an hour ago. Remus Lupin.”Sirius nods his thanks, and follows Gid out of the door.Remus Lupin. He’ll have to look into that.-The Marauders+La La Land. What more can I say?





	

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not know all that much about the making of films, music, or musical films. This is flying with only google as a guide. If you see something that is glaringly, obviously wrong don't hesitate to point it out to me!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this burst of madness. Obviously, this fic will contain spoilers for La La Land. However, this chapter is spoiler free, so if you haven't seen it yet then you know what to do! I absolutely fell in love with the music, the imagery, the beauty of this film.

**Derbyshire, England**

It’s the perfect kind of spring evening: one where you can leave the windows open without fearing the insects or the chill. Remus climbs the stairs, treading softly, to check on Teddy before he begins. If he’s not yet asleep, he’ll have to wait- Teddy will want to listen, and he has school in the morning.

But when Remus peers carefully around the door, Teddy is curled on his side, dead to the world.

Perfect.

Remus sits on the stool a minute or so later, a mug of tea balanced beside him, and the familiar sense of comfort drapes itself over him. A well-worn groove in his brain: a pattern on a well-loved record. He flexes his fingers, lays them delicately on the keys.

The first chord comes out easily- a little melancholy, perhaps, but he can work with that. And slowly, he begins to bring a new piece together. Occasionally he stops; goes over a spot again, once, twice, three times. A swallow of tea. From the beginning again. Only when he has the basics roughed out in his head, vaguely imprinted in his fingers, does he reach for his phone and press record.

Outside, the dusk falls, as light and airy as a veil. And the only sound to be heard is the haunting, flowing melody of the piano, and the occasional vehement curse when the player hits a wrong note.

 

**New York, America**

“Fuck!”

“Black!”

“Sorry,” Sirius drops out of the routine completely and rubs his sweatbands over his forehead.

“You know the rules,” Marlene scolds him, “Alexa, stop!”

The music dies away and Sirius rolls his eyes.

“No routines that involve my f-” He catches himself just in time, “-lazy left foot?”

Marlene throws a bottle of water at him.

“ _No swearing in the studio_.”

“I _know_ ,” Sirius pants, taking a long drink and glaring at himself in the mirror. Normally he’s rather fond of his reflection; unless he can’t get something into his head. And that _stupid_ , _fucking_ extra kick on the end of the cross-over section…

If they weren’t dancing together, it wouldn’t matter so much- but everything has to be in perfect unison, and it’s showing up Sirius’ weaknesses. He doesn’t like it.

Not that he _has_ many weaknesses. He’s one of the best dancers and choreographers in the business (though he does say so himself). He’s had to hire an agent to take care of all the requests flooding in for his work. Financially, for a dancer, he’s doing well. In the mirror, his posture visibly straightens.

“Quit preening, Black,” Marlene throws the comment over her shoulder as she goes back to her spot. “Ego is a pain to clean off the mirrors.”

 Sirius gives himself a brief reality check, drops his water bottle back on the floor and joins her.

“Again?” He asks. This time, he’s going to _nail_ it.

“Again.”

And they take a deep breath, and go from the top.

 

By the end of the day, Sirius’ muscles are crying and he feels like a dried-out husk, but he’s finally managed to run through the side-by-side segment perfectly and he’s filled with the familiar glow of satisfaction.

“Good job, Black,” Marlene graces him with a rare smile as she stretches out her hamstrings.

Sirius inclines his head.

“It’s fun working with you,” He says, honestly.

“You just like my studio.”

Sirius laughs.

“Not going to deny it.”

Marlene has an incredible space to work in: high-up in the iconic skyline, warm wooden floor, mirrored walls, light pouring in from the skylights overhead.

“Do you think we’ll be ready for filming tomorrow?” She asks, beginning to pull on layers, ready to face the chill outside.

Sirius shrugs, then nods.

“Don’t see why not. Just to rough out the shots and framing.”

“Alright. I’ll bring my tripod.”

“Excellent.”

The collaboration had been Sirius’ idea: he’d been on YouTube for years, since he was seventeen and just starting to think about striking out on his own. Marlene had been dancing for as long, but he’d only spotted her channel a few months ago. Their styles complemented one another, and after a long period of negotiation, they’d finally come together to film a routine. At first it had been a little awkward, but that quickly faded as they stretched out the pattern and flow of the dance.

It was, as he had said, fun. It had been a while since he’d worked with someone who truly pushed him.

_Still_ , he thinks, as he winces at a twinge in the deep muscle of his calf, _I’m not sure my muscles appreciate it quite so much_.

“Right. Back to the hotel for you?” Marlene asks, clicking off the lights as they walk towards the lift. _Elevator_ , Sirius reminds himself.

He nods in response to her question. “I’ll take a cab.”

It’s one of the things he loves about New York: the sheer rush of it all, of striding into the road and looking instantly for a new place to go, so utterly different to the staid quiet of the leafy London streets he grew up in. He's considered moving here permanently, but he likes his own studio too much. Less flashy than Marlene's, admittedly (he _really_ needs to look into voice-controlled sound systems), but it’s his.

Marlene shakes his hand before they part ways on the sidewalk.

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow!” Sirius darts towards the road and raises a hand in a combination of farewell and a signal. A yellow cab pulls up.

_I’ll never get over how cool that is_ , Sirius thinks to himself, and climbs into the back seat.

The hotel is a middle-ground kind of establishment: in theory, you don’t share rooms, but the walls are so thin that privacy is very much a notional concept. At least there are no bunk-beds. Sirius’ window has an inspiring view of a brick wall.

He dumps his bag on the bed and stretches. He needs protein and then he needs sleep. A thought floats through his mind- one that has been becoming increasingly common over the last few months- that he should be doing more, that there’s more to existence than this.

But then he remembers the burn-pull-flare of dancing in perfect time, in perfect form, and tells himself that every sacrifice is worth it for that purity of feeling, a feeling so clear and essential that it feels almost like insanity.

Yes. It’s worth it.

He dismisses the idea that having to affirm this to himself confirms its untruth, and goes in search of dinner.

 

**Derbyshire, England**

“Teddy, shoes!” Remus is not quite despairing, but he’s getting close. He loves Teddy with every bone in his body, but how can one eight-year-old child be so incapable of dressing themselves?

“Oh!” Ted scampers back up to his bedroom, small feet making a racket on the stairs. Remus checks that he has his P.E. kit and his book bag then seizes the car keys from the side table.

“Come on, Ted!”

“I can’t find my shoes!” A voice floats down through the ceiling.

“Where did you last have them?” Remus calls up, his eyes raking the kitchen floor. “Are they by the TV?”

The thunder of feet overhead, then back down the stairs and into the living room.

“Got them!”

“Good boy!” Remus says, and checks the clock. They might just make it. “Put them on, then. We’ve got to dash.”

Teddy hares into view, finally fully dressed in his school uniform, matching socks and regulation shoes jammed onto his feet. Remus hands him his bags, grabs his own laptop and paraphernalia from beside the shoe rack and hustles them both out of the door.

Teddy makes it to registration on time (just) and Remus waves him away across the playground with a fond, if slightly exasperated smile. Then he hotfoots it back to the car to avoid getting a parking ticket.

Normally he works from home, but today he has a meeting with his agent (he has an _agent_ now, miracles do happen) to go through his plans for the next six months and discuss any offers of work that might have come trickling through. Ever since he’d landed the contract for the music for that life insurance company’s advert campaign, there’s been a steady stream of demands: it had prompted finding an agent in the first place. But he wasn’t complaining. He could not only support himself, but Teddy, too, now- and that was a welcome change.

Thankfully his car is mercifully free of any angry yellow tickets, and he takes a moment before setting off to text Tonks: _Teddy fine, agent meeting this morning, good luck with clients today_. The usual. He’ll probably see her at the weekend, when she comes to take Teddy. The arrangement suits all parties very well.

Another miracle, to be honest.

Remus clicks on his indicator and pulls out. Being late for a meeting with Hestia is never a good idea.

 

“Remus!” Hestia looks up as soon as he opens the door to her office. Immediately, he can tell something’s up. There’s a smile around her eyes that’s not normally there, a slight shift in the way she’s sat in her chair. “Come in. I’ve got some interesting news for you.”

Remus eyes her curiously, but sits down in the chair on the other side of the desk nonetheless. He trusts Hestia. She’s always found him good projects that appreciate, rather than nit-pick, his style.

“You have a smile,” He says, warily, and Hestia smiles even wider.

“I do.” She pushes her glasses further up her nose and fusses with the edge of her hijab. “And with good reason. Read this.”

She spins her laptop around so he can see the screen, and Remus leans forward to read the email glowing there, in black and white pixels.

 

_Dear Ms Jones,_

_I am trying to reach the jazz pianist and composer, Remus Lupin, regarding a large-scale cinematic project we are undertaking. We would like to meet with Mr Lupin and discuss the possibility of him joining the project in the capacity of composer. I’m afraid that given the early stage of the project, we cannot provide many details without entering into a confidentiality agreement with both yourself and Mr Lupin, but we are fairly confident it should interest him._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lady Minerva McGonagall, CBE_

 

Remus looks up at Hestia over the top of the laptop, who looks as though she might explode.

“Um,” He says, not really sure where to begin. “Large-scale cinematic project?”

Hestia heaves a deep, deep sigh.

“Remus, you are focusing on the _wrong_ _thing_. Lady Minerva McGonagall sent this. _Lady_ _McGonagall_.”

Remus wracks his brains, but comes up with nothing. He pulls an apologetic face.

“Remus!” Hestia throws her hands up in despair. “She is the God of musical cinema. The _God_. She directed _Magic in Brooklyn_!”

Oh. _Oh_. _Magic in Brooklyn_ is one of Remus’ favourites. He watches it with Teddy and Tonks, and sometimes just by himself, when he needs cheering up.

“Holy _shit_ ,” He mutters. Then he looks up at Hestia. “She’s interested in _me_?”

“Don’t do yourself down,” She tells him, “You’re a name now, in the business.”

“But I’ve _never_ composed a score,” Remus protests, feeling very shocked, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Remus, you pay me for my advice,” Hestia says, sharply, “So listen to me now. Just meet her. See what she has to say. If it doesn’t feel right, then you can walk away, nothing lost.”

Remus takes a moment- in that office coloured in brown and green, face bathed in the light of a screen- and senses, even then, that his life might be at a pivotal point, the needle of a compass suddenly, unexpectedly swinging.

He folds his hands together in his lap.

“I’m listening.”

 

**New York, America**

“Hey everyone, you’re joining us here in Marlene’s studio in New York! I know! Pretty fancy, huh.” Sirius grins at Marlene. “So I know a lot of you have been requesting we collab for a while now and… Here it is! We hope you enjoy it! Don’t forget to check out Marlene’s channel, linked in the description box below. Ready, Marl?”

“I was born ready,” She laughs, and they both back away from the camera to take their marks.

The familiar roll of the drums kicks in, and, an instant later the timeless melody soaring out of an oboe. The whole concept of the routine is the push and pull between the two dancers- focusing on interaction and isolation, rather than uniformity.

The whole premise behind getting together to dance was their shared interest in Charleston: so they start off solo, each performing small skittering segments that are part swing, part tap, playing with the rhythms underlying Gene Krupa’s interpretation of _Sing, Sing, Sing_ , handing the motion of the dance back and forth as though they’re throwing a ball. They’re both in their tap shoes, and the precise clattering brings a spreading grin to Sirius’ face. _This_ is what it’s all about, he thinks, as the next part of the song begins: creating something, bringing it to life in bright, joyous, moving technicolour.

They finish, chests heaving, then bow to the camera.

“Until next time!” Sirius signs off, then, not entirely for the drama, keels over backwards to lie on the hard floor. He expects Marlene to laugh at him, but she just flops down to sit cross-legged beside him.

“That was… good,” She says, and Sirius laughs to hear the surprised note in her voice.

“I didn’t f- mess up that solo section,” He acknowledges.

Marlene smiles, but shakes her head.

“No, I meant working with you. You’re surprisingly…”

“Do tell,” Sirius says, closing his eyes against the bright light.

Marlene huffs.

“I just meant that you aren’t as much of an arrogant asshole as I thought you were. Nothing more.”

Sirius chuckles. “ _Whatever_ gave you that impression?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Marlene replies, sarcastically, and Sirius shrugs.

“Well, if ever you want to do this again some time, I know a really great version of _In the Mood_ that we could use.”

“I’ll consider it,” Marlene says, and Sirius is surprised to realise that she actually means it. “Now get up and stretch, idiot.”

He does as she says, because she’s right. After he’s squeezed the majority of the lactic acid from his muscles, he wanders over to their pile of stuff behind the camera and checks his phone.

One text from his agent, and a handful of emails. The message from Gid simply reads: _Check your emails!_ Sirius rolls his eyes, but complies.

His eyes widen. He rereads several times, just to check that he’s not hallucinating, or accidentally stepped into a parallel universe.

 

_Dear Mr Prewett,_

_I would like to arrange a meeting with your client, Mr Sirius Black, regarding a large-scale cinematic project we are undertaking. The project is still at a very early stage and therefore I cannot disclose any details without entering into confidentiality agreements with yourself and Mr Black, however I think the project will be of interest to him, in the capacity of choreographer._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lady Minerva McGonagall_

 

“Holy _fuck_ ,” He mutters, and Marlene yelps. “Sorry,” He waves at her, “Sorry. I just- I have to give someone a call-” He grabs his bags.

Then he runs to the lift and jams his thumb on the ground floor button, dialling Gid as fast as he can

After seven rings (Sirius counts), Gideon picks up.

“Sirius, do you have _any_ idea what time it is?”

“No and I do not care.” Sirius darts through the press of people on the sidewalk and hails a cab. “Tell me honestly- did I hallucinate that email? Am I having a very colourful dream?”

Gideon yawns, then groans. “You are not dreaming, Sirius, but I was. Can we talk about this at a sociable hour?”

“ _No_ ,” Sirius says, vehemently, bundling into the taxi. “The Met Hotel, please- _Lady_ _Minerva_ , Gid! The fucking queen wants to meet _me_! I could be working for her!”

“Could be,” Gideon tells him, firmly, “Strong emphasis on the _could_. She’s just scouting you out, mate, don’t get too excited until you know a bit more.”

“Fuck that,” Sirius says, impatiently. “How soon can I meet her?”

“As soon as you let your world-weary agent get a full night’s sleep so he can email her back tomorrow, _comprende_?”

“Fine,” Sirius sighs, “First thing tomorrow.”

“Your wish is my command,” Gid growls, “Now fuck off and let me sleep.”

Sirius hangs up, his veins humming like electricity is coursing through them. He’s surprised his hands aren’t shaking. _Minerva McGonagall_. Holy-

 

**London, England**

“Crap,” Remus mutters, “Crap, crap, crap-”

“What is the matter with you?” Hestia hisses, anxiously checking her reflection in the reflective walls of the lift.

“I forgot the scores,” He breathes, unable to believe he’s been so _stupid_ , “I left them in the car.” They might be shooting up to the thirtieth floor of a very swanky London hotel, but he feels as though his stomach is still stuck on the ground floor.

“Oh, _Remus_ ,” Hestia sighs. “Well, nothing to be done about it now.”

He supposes she’s right. That doesn’t stop the sick feeling, though.

His hands anxiously flutter to the knot in his tie. He feels out of place, wearing the dress shirt he’d bought for Teddy’s Christening and the matching smart trousers, but Hestia had insisted he present himself with his image in mind. Unfortunately, the only images currently in Remus’ mind are of the fear, failure and humiliation that might occur during the next twenty minutes.

The lift _dings!_

“Thirtieth floor,” The woman’s cool voice announces, and Remus tries to subtly wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers.

“Keep calm,” Hestia murmurs, although she herself looks clammy, “Everything will be fine…”

And the doors slide open.

Remus peers nervously through them, then gets out. There’s no point in putting it off.

The entire suite is an effusion of white and gold. The grey London sky lies gloomy outside the wide windows, the light mainly coming from soft lamps set into sconces along the walls. In the centre of the room is a coffee table and two couches. And sat on one of those couches is Lady Minerva McGonagall.

She looks a lot like she does in photographs, Remus thinks, in surprise. Middling height, iron-grey hair, a thin mouth and piercing green eyes. She was dressed the way you might expect a First Lady to dress, day-to-day.

“Good morning,” She says, in a brisk voice. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Hello,” Remus finds his voice again, and promptly thinks that it might be better if he’d lost it for good.

“Good morning, Lady McGonagall,” Hestia does the thing properly, all at once cool and calm and in control. It was one of her many talents, pulling herself together like this.

Lady McGonagall inclines her head as Remus sits down gingerly opposite her, feeling like a small child in an art gallery: awkward and a little afraid to speak.

“I am very grateful for your time, Mr Lupin,” Lady McGonagall says. “I will get straight to the point. I would like you to compose the music for this.” She hands him a sheaf of paper. On the front, printed in large, block capitals are the words:

**LA LA LAND**

“A musical?” Remus asks, staring down at the paper.

“That’s right,” Lady McGonagall replies, tartly.

There’s a moment of silence that not even Hestia can fill.

Then Remus raises his head.

“Why me?” He says, simply.

“Because this musical is about jazz,” Lady McGonagall tells him, “And you are a jazz pianist, are you not?”

Remus swallows.

“I am, but-”

“Moreover, it is a musical where the music is absolutely essential to the furthering of the plot. Meaning our male lead will have to learn to play the piano with at least some competency. And you are not only a jazz pianist and a composer, but you have also taught several pupils to play.”

Remus blinks at her, then looks back down at the document in his hand.

“You want me to write the music for this?” He clarifies.

Lady McGonagall looks at him as though he’s an imbecile.

“And teach the male lead, as yet uncast, to play the piano? Jazz piano?”

“Was that not what I just said?” Lady McGonagall asks right back. Remus can’t help the small smile that creeps across his face. Lady McGonagall inclines her head.

Remus opens up the notes.

“This is set in L.A.?” The burgeoning hope of the past few minutes suddenly deflates inside him.

“Yes,” Lady McGonagall is clearly unimpressed with his questions, but Remus has to ask.

“Would you expect me to be on-set?” He asks, and has a horrible feeling he knows the answer.

Lady McGonagall gives him another look. “Of course.”

Remus lets the front page fall shut in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” He tells her, disappointment turning to lead in his stomach. “I can’t do it. I have a young son- I can’t spend months in America. I’m sorry.”

He makes a motion to hand her back the papery whisper of excitement he still holds, but Lady McGonagall draws herself up to her full height and stares him down.

“Mr Lupin, we will be filming from June to August. That is the school holidays, isn’t it? Obscurial Entertainment will pay the expenses for both of you. Think of it as a paid holiday for your boy."

Remus gapes.

Lady McGonagall gives a little nod. “Now, please do me the courtesy of actually reading that document, rather than wafting it around like a fan.”

Remus does as he’s told.

Over his head, Hestia starts to discuss contracts, and non-disclosure agreements, but Remus isn’t paying attention. By three pages in, he’s captivated.

“This is _brilliant_ ,” He tells her, already the shape and colour of the story taking on solidity in his head.

“I’m glad you think so,” Lady McGonagall says, and the expression that crosses her face is the closest to a smile she’s worn since they entered the room. “Now, you will be working closely with the writer, producers and choreographer as well as the actors. I do not expect there to be a problem, however.”

“Who’s the writer?” Remus asks.

“Why, Mr Lupin,” And Lady McGonagall really does smile, then, “I am.”

 

**London, England**

“Sirius, stop _bouncing_.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were gritting your teeth, Gid,” Sirius smiles sweetly, “You know that’s not good for your stress levels.”

Gideon mutters something that might be _“You’re not good for my fucking stress levels,”_ But it’s so quiet that Sirius decides it isn’t worth making a fuss about. Behind them, one of the lifts _dings!_

“Come on,” Sirius darts over to it, even though there’s nobody else waiting. The gold doors slide apart, and two people get out. A woman wearing a bright blue hijab, and a tall, lanky man with hair that’s falling in his eyes.

“Excuse me,” The man says, politely, and Sirius realises he’s blocking the way.

“Sorry!” He blurts out, and steps to the side. The man nods, looking slightly dazed, then he and the woman are walking away.

“Right,” Gideon says, with the air of a man trying hard to keep his patience, “Floor thirty.”

Sirius nods, hops in, and jams his thumb on the button.

 

“Jazz?!” He exclaims. “You want me to choreograph dance numbers for a jazz musical?”

“That is precisely what I would like, Mr Black,” Lady McGonagall appraises him. “I assume you are willing?”

“ _Willing_?!” Sirius explodes, “I would love to!” He feels as though a fire has been lit in his ribcage, one that burns bright and beautiful and astonishing all at once.

Lady McGonagall _almost_ smiles.

“That’s settled, then. I will be in touch to discuss a contract in due course. You will have to make yourself available for the duration of filming- June to August in Los Angeles.”

Sirius is already nodding.

“I can do that.”

“And you will be expected to work with the writer, producers, composers and actors. There is no space for a lone wolf on this production.”

“I understand,” Sirius tells her. Then a thought occurs to him. “Who’s the composer?”

“Given that neither you nor the composer nor the lyricist have signed the contract yet, I am not at liberty to say. I will inform you as soon as you have committed to the project.”

Sirius nods his understanding. _La La Land_. Even the name seems magical.

He asks his final question.

“When can I sign?”

Lady McGonagall looks at Gideon. “I shall have our lawyers draw up a contract by the end of next week. Assuming you are happy with it, we can arrange for it to be signed the week after.”

Sirius can feel himself grinning.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Black,” Lady McGonagall says, “We will be in touch.”

Sirius shakes her hand; waits for Gid to do the same. When they’re in the lift, he whoops. For the next two weeks, he walks as though his feet don’t touch the ground.

 

**Derbyshire, England**

Remus can feel himself shaking slightly as he takes the key out of the ignition and climbs out of the driver’s seat.

_I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming._

He opens the boot and retrieves his satchel, and the suit jacket that he’s refused to wear. Then he walks to the front door.

_This can’t be real. I will wake up and everything will be back to normal._

The door is unlocked: he can see the light turned on in the kitchen through the front window. He pushes down on the handle. It’s strange how ordinary it feels, to come home at the end of a long day.

“Hello!” He calls, as he shuts the door behind him and pulls off his shoes.

“Dad!” Teddy yells back, “We’re making omelette!”

“Oh, yummy,” Remus replies, stowing his brogues in the rack and wandering through to the kitchen. It’s warm and full of yellow light and the smells of cooking. Tonks and Teddy stand by the hob, Tonks still in her work dress but with her feet in a pair of ratty slippers, showing Ted how to pour the egg around the pan so that it cooks evenly.

“And now we wait for it to brown on the bottom- hey, Remus! You have the pan for a minute, Ted- I need to give your dad a hug.”

Tonks turns to face him, smiling, and wraps her arms around him.

“I want a hug with dad, too!” Teddy pipes up, indignantly, and Remus laughs.

“Everyone will get hugs,” He promises. “How was work?”

“Dull,” Tonks replies. “But I don’t care about that! How did it go?”

“How about I tell you over dinner?” Remus tells her, his stomach grumbling at the delicious smells wafting from the cooker, “Right now I want to get out of these ridiculous clothes.”

“You look very handsome!” Tonks teases, letting go of him and running her hand through her hair. “Alright, Ted, I’ll look after the pan now. Go hug your dad!”

Teddy (still in his school uniform, daft kid) launches himself at Remus, and Remus hugs him tight.

“Alright, I’ll be down in five minutes,” He says, “And you can tell me all about your day at school, Ted!”

Ten minutes later, they’re sat around the dinner table.

“… And Mrs Maurice gave me a gold star for handing round the scissors in art.”

Remus takes another mouthful of steaming omelette.

“And have you had any homework?”

“I’ve already done it!” The small boy says, proudly.

“Reading comprehension,” Tonks puts in, “And he didn’t need any help at all.”

“Well done," Remus tells him, smiling, “Very good job.”

“OK…” Tonks swallows her mouthful. “Now it’s your turn, dad- how was _your_ day?”

All of the strangeness of this morning comes rushing back- the singing, shivering excitement wrapped up in the ten typed pages he has stowed in his satchel.

“Well, I went to a very fancy hotel in London,” He says slowly.

“How fancy?” Ted wants to know.

“ _Really_ fancy,” Remus tells him, his eyes widening, “So fancy that the floors were made of marble and there were twelve lifts! And I met a lady, and she wants to give me a job.”

“Remus, that’s wonderful!” Tonks cries.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to take it yet,” Remus says, a little quieter, and Tonks’ face changes from joyful to confused.

“Why not, dad?” Ted asks.

“Because… It’s for a film. And they want me to be on-set for the whole time it takes to shoot the film. And they’re shooting in Los Angeles.”

Tonks stares. Teddy just looks bemused.

“Los Angeles?” He says, “Like, in America?”

“Yes.” Remus says, “And it would be during your school holidays, and they’d pay for both of us to go out there. But it might be a bit unfair on your mum. And if she doesn’t want me to do it then I won’t.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Oh,” Teddy says.

_Yes_ , Remus thinks, a little hysterically, _that about sums it up_.

“I mean it,” He says, softly, to Tonks, “I won’t take the job if you don’t want me to.”

“Are you kidding?!” Tonks shrieks, and Remus jumps as a smile lights up her face, “You have to! This is an amazing chance! And Ted will get to see L.A.- what’s the film about?”

“I’m going to America?!” Teddy grasps what’s happened far quicker than Remus, “Are we really going to America, dad?!”

“I- yes,” Remus says, flabbergasted, “Yes!”

“So?” Tonks asks, leaning her chin on the heel of her hand, “What’s the film about?”

“OK,” Remus takes a deep breath. “Ted, you can’t tell anyone this. It’s a big secret, OK? If everyone knew, it would spoil the surprise for when it comes out in the cinema, and that would be a shame, yeah?”

Teddy nods very solemnly.

“I understand. I won’t tell anyone.”

Remus is proud of his son all the time, but there are times when he is very forcibly reminded of that fact.

“Good boy,” He says, just as sincerely, then looks back up at Tonks. “The film I’m going to be working on-” A small firework of excitement detonates inside him at that statement, “- is a musical, set in L.A., about two artists trying to find their place in the world.”

“Oh, Remus,” Tonks smiles, “That sounds _perfect_.”

 

**Bristol, England**

Sirius celebrates alone, in his flat, with a bottle of champagne. The days until he can sign the contract drag by.

_This is all I’ve ever wanted_ , he thinks.

And it’s true. But if it’s true, why does it make him a little sad?

 

**London, England**

“Did you bring a pen?”

“Yes, Hestia, I did bring a pen.” Remus rolls his eyes, but pats his breast pocket nonetheless. The smart fountain pen his parents bought him as a graduation present is still there, filled with ink (admittedly, Tonks had to remind him to do that before he left this morning).

“I know I’ve said this before, but this is a good contract, Remus,” Hestia says, “I wouldn’t recommend you put your name on anything that wasn’t one hundred percent legitimate.”

“I know, Hestia,” Remus smiles at her. “I trust you.”

She huffs out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just this is such a big thing for you.”

It was, as Hestia said, a big thing. When Remus thinks about the amount of money he’s getting paid to write this, he feels slightly faint.

A good kind of faint, but faint all the same.

“Ah, you’re here,” Lady McGonagall looks up as they walk into the conference room, somewhere else in this enormous, fancy hotel. “Unless you have any other questions or points to raise, I suggest we get on with it.”

“I quite agree,” Remus says. His stomach is suddenly fluttering wildly.

The contract sits on the glass table, and Remus sits down in front of it. He’s read the thing back to front several times (having a child-raising partner who is also a lawyer is a real help, on occasion) and so he flicks through it without taking in any of the words.

And there it is, on the last page. The fabled dotted line.

Remus reaches for the pen in his pocket; draws it out; uncaps the nib. He hesitates just before pressing the metal tip to the paper.

Then he swiftly, and without any further agonising, deliberation, or questioning, signs his name in looping letters.

_Remus J. Lupin_

It’s done. No going back now.

 

**London, England**

“Fuck,” Sirius curses, patting down his pockets, “Gid, have you got a pen?”

He turns to see a biro being waved in front of his nose.

“You are a miracle-worker,” Sirius says, fervently. He doesn’t know why he’s getting so worked up: probably the fact that this is his first major contract for his first major film has something to do with it.

“Glad to see you finally appreciating me,” Gideon gives him a sidelong grin and Sirius pulls a face. They walk together down the plush corridor to the conference room, and somebody opens the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr Black,” Lady McGonagall ushers him inside, “Unless you have anything pressing to say, I would suggest we get straight to business.”

“Right you are,” Sirius smiles his most charming smile and sits down in front of the wodge of paper that promises untold riches and glory, providing he does as he’s contracted to do… Or to destroy his life, one lawsuit at a time, should he not play by their rules.

_Don’t overthink this, Sirius_ , he tells himself, and flips straight to the back page. Of course, he’s checked through it, and Gideon has had somebody competent go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Now he just wants to sign the bloody thing.

One second, the dotted line is blank- the next, filled with the scrawling signature of _Sirius O. Black_.

“Thank you, Mr Black.” Lady McGonagall reaches across and picks up the contract.

“One more question,” Sirius asks, as he gets to his feet, “Can you tell me who the composer is?”

The Lady smiles for the first time.

“I can. He signed his contract with us just an hour ago. Remus Lupin.”

Sirius nods his thanks, and follows Gid out of the door.

_Remus Lupin_. He’ll have to look into that.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is very much appreciated, kudos, comments, thoughts on the plot- I literally love and am grateful for any and all. I'm not hugely certain where the plot of this is going right now, but I am going back to see the film at the weekend so I'll try to take notes and work out what I'm going to do.


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